The Last Great White Hunter
by Clez
Summary: The last moments in the life of a great hero, a hunter, an adventurer, a leader... Allan Quatermain.


**Author's Note: **Hello, everybody. It's me! Okay… enough of that. I wrote this whilst I was at work, sitting on reception doing bugger all and being majorly bored. Good thing I planned ahead, 'eh? Lol… anyway…

* * *

            Wan sunlight filtered in through the monstrous cracks in the tortured shell of the Mongolian fortress, the last shuddering effects of the bombs lingering and dislodging generous amounts of dust from the looming ceilings and rafters, where chains and cobwebs hung, intertwined and disused. Amidst the crumbling stone, the broken furniture and the painful long-forgotten memories captured in the ageless portraits that lay in disarray, two men were frozen in confrontation. Their worn faces were lined with grim determination, so different yet so shockingly alike in their persistence. Not long ago, they had been allies of sorts, but now the pangs of betrayal and revelation hung between them like frightful spectres.

            The first of the two men was tall but appeared cumbersome in his regal blue cloak, trimmed with white, thick and heavy. In his weather-beaten hands he held a box, brown with a metal clasp, containing items and blueprints that could very well wreak havoc with the world beyond. His light, crazed eyes were slightly narrowed in irritation at his apparent failure, – at least for the moment – set firmly on his opponent, the very man he had recruited to lead the elite team of outcasts and misfits… unaware that they had an actual chance of success. His tousled mahogany hair had lost its pristine, crisp lines, and though he was quiet for the moment, his voice had transformed from English 'gentleman' to cockney criminal. In his other hand was a polished, immaculate mask, curved outlines appearing sharp and almost wicked, adding to the façade he had been playing to as of late. His name – though he had previously been called M and the Fantom – was Professor James Moriarty.

            The second man was even taller by a good few inches, his dishevelled grey hair and lined forehead betraying his age and displaying his vast experience in adventure. He wore weathered clothes, from his sturdy high boots to his beaten leather waistcoat, complete with pouches and pockets for various hunter equipment. Many were empty, illustrating the extensive loss and absence of contentment in his life. His dark, somewhat shaded eyes bore heavily into Moriarty, penetrating the malice, the cowardice and the lies. His jaw was broad and set angrily, his weary muscles aching from the exertion put into the brutal combat – intended 'to the death' – not long ago. The bombs that had detonated just moments before had wracked the building and disrupted the fight, at a pivotal moment. In his right hand he held a Webley revolver, chamber locked into place and the hammer cocked, prepared for the pulling of the trigger. Allan Quatermain, legendary hunter and adventurer, was poised for the kill.

            Allan's mind was blissfully set on his goal – destroy Moriarty. He _had_ intended to capture the villain bent on world war and monetary gain, but the last twenty minutes or so had quickly changed his ideas and plans. Moriarty needed to be exterminated, by any means necessary, whether it be by a bullet from the Webley, or by the blade of the dropped bowie knife between them.

            Moriarty suddenly donned an expression of feigned intense curiousity, as he asked loudly, "Do you ever get tired of being wrong?"

            Allan was well aware of the cunning and sneak tactics of Professor Moriarty, and was already convinced the other man was trying to distract him long enough to either escape or land his own killing blow… and neither were favourable.

            "Me," Moriarty persisted, his thick accent somewhat exaggerated it seemed, "the _League_… Skinner." Moriarty issued forth a slight sigh as he emphasised by persisting, "Wrong."

            Allan wished the bastard would stop his useless attempts at delaying the inevitable, though there was really nothing stopping the hunter from pulling the trigger and shutting Moriarty up himself. Perhaps he had no actual intentions of killing the so-called 'Napoleon of crime'. It was either that or his instinctual curiousity that kept him from firing the shot. 

            "Wrong about your little American friend as well."

            Allan felt his confidence leak from his expression at that comment. Why was he wrong about Agent Tom Sawyer? A swell of dread settled in his stomach, gnawing away at the inner triumph. The last time he had seen Sawyer; he had run into – quite literally – Skinner. Allan prayed Moriarty was simply grasping at straws to try and save his own pitiful life.

            "Do you really think he's ready for action?" Moriarty inquired, edging closer and closer, his voice reverberating slightly in the cavernous room. Slowly, he started to raise the golden Fantom's mask, though Allan was not yet sure why. Moriarty's eyes strayed off into the background for a moment. "I think you've trained him about as well as you trained your son."

            At the mention of his deceased son, Harry, Allan's attention was piqued. Anything could have happened around him then – from a raging tiger to another bomb explosion – and he doubted he would have noticed. The comparison between his lost child and the ever ready, optimistic American was troubling to say the least, and Allan found he could not tear his eyes from the surface of the mask.

            The light caught the gold then, and various objects from around the room were reflected in startling clarity as Moriarty levelled the mask with Allan's concerned face.

            That was when the hunter saw it in the makeshift mirror – the one thing he had unknowingly feared. Up on the shallow balcony above and behind him was Sawyer, being held firmly at knifepoint, oddly silent and cooperative. The blade seemed to hover of its own accord, until – upon closer inspection – he made out the vague shape of an invisible man, partially exposed by black ink powder. For one terrifying moment, he thought Skinner really _had_ betrayed him… and then he narrowed his eyes. Though he had no definite way of knowing, the posture and faint details he could see brought him to the somewhat more comforting conclusion that the knife-wielder was one Sanderson Reed.

            The triumph in Moriarty's blazing eyes was almost enough to bring Allan to the agonising conclusion that he had failed, and he would have to surrender in order to save Sawyer's life.

            _He'd just kill us both anyway_, he realised, setting his jaw once again as he saw the look on Sawyer's young face. It was almost pleading, as though the Secret Service Agent was silently begging him _not_ to turn around. Allan mentally saw a brief flash of recollection from his son's tragic death… the worst of his failures.

            He hadn't been able to save Harry Quatermain… but he could at least _try_ and save Tom Sawyer. After all, the least that should be expected of any man is to have him try. He _had_ to try.

            With a determined grimace aimed at the smug Moriarty, Allan whirled, gun ready and swiftly aimed after years of practise and experience. In the blink of an eye, Allan's finger had squeezed the trigger, and the invisible captor was thrown back, his head snapped away from Sawyer with the force of the shot. The American himself threw his torso in the other direction, bowing away and pulling his head down as his hair was tossed into disarray.

            Allan smiled when he realised Sawyer was unharmed – save for the cut on his hand – and in no immediate danger, moments before the blinding, burning agony asserted itself forcefully between his shoulder blades. It spread out like flames licking at him hungrily, eating at his muscle and tissue, and he grunted as he felt the bowie knife twist, his breath snapping short and refusing to seep from his lungs normally… one of which he guessed to be punctured.

            Even as Reed's now-useless knife clattered to the ground as the invisible body slumped entirely, Allan dropped his Webley from his grasp. It crashed to the ground, and the hunter tried to no avail to reach around and remove the knife lodged in his back. He assumed Moriarty had been questing for his heart, as he heard the coward flee from behind him.

            Glancing up, he saw the guilt-ridden horror consume Sawyer's features, even as the young agent threw himself in a calculated leap from the shallow upper level. The 'spy' landed with an agile roll – making Allan jealous of Sawyer's youth – and then ran after Moriarty. Allan had to hand it to him; when he was determined, it seemed nothing could dissuade him… but Allan knew the blade had caused too much irreparable damage. Nevertheless, having seen Moriarty leap through the gaping crack in the wall, Allan fished in his breast pocket for his spectacles… circumstances called for – as he liked to call it – 'pitting the ace'.

            Sawyer tore himself from where he had been watching Moriarty, and sprinted to retrieve the dropped elephant gun – Matilda. He snatched it up, and came along beside his fatally wounded mentor, even as the hunter produced his spectacles from his pocket, biting back a curse. The glass lenses were shattered, useless and worthy of being completely discarded.

            Allan looked into the curious green eyes of Sawyer, and saw the burning question held within – 'what now?'

            "Get 'im!" Allan instructed firmly, with a gruff sideways jerk of the head. He saw the questioning hesitation, and prayed the American would not doubt his abilities at this crucial moment. 

            So, needless to say, Allan felt a great weight lifted from his shoulders as Sawyer charged off to do as he had been told. Allan glanced, disbelievingly, to his ruined spectacles. Were this only target practise, he would not have bothered with the simple assistant to obtain perfect accuracy, but… this one shot meant everything. Saw took up a balanced position in the gap, the light snow flurrying around his youthful face.

            Allan noticed the mischievous glint in his protégé's eyes was gone, and he prayed it wasn't lost forever. Innocence was the one thing Allan wished he still had… just what he had robbed his son of on that last willing adventure, when he had still enjoyed the thrill of it all, and revelled in being the hero.

            But now he was too old, somewhat frail and broken, and no longer the man he once was.

            "It's too far," Sawyer announced upon glancing back at Allan, who was snapped out of his reverie and thrown back into reality, where he was suddenly dizzy, and he could feel his strength bleeding out of him.

            Sawyer's doubt of himself was clear, from the overly pensive furrowing of the brow to his less than subtle frown. Allan's sprits sank a little. He would have thought the American's optimism would have outweighed the severity of the situation. Obviously not… like all pupils, Sawyer needed encouragement and reassurance.

            "Take your time," Allan guided, recalling their lesson on the conning tower. The shot had truly been impressive for a first attempt. Allan nodded weakly for as much emphasis as he could muster, adding, "You're ready."

            And he meant it too; tried to convey the sincerity in his eyes as he locked gazes with Sawyer, seeing the serious consideration there… he understood, Allan knew, as he turned his full attention back on his quarry and his high vantage point, cocking the gun.

            Allan nodded, though Sawyer couldn't see the movement. The hunter trusted to Sawyer's ability… he just hoped the American knew that; understood what he was capable of.

            "Take… your-" Allan couldn't finish the sentence of further encouragement, as his knees picked that exact moment to fail him, and he nearly collapsed, managing to grab out behind him with a hand and steady his body as he lowered none too gracefully onto a pile of furniture, an old table providing a low seat.

            He didn't have long left, he knew, his eyes fixed intently on Sawyer, seeing the tense concentration in his whole posture, the green-eyed gaze never wavering… watching Moriarty no doubt, and calculating the distance.

            He could do it… he _had_ to. He couldn't miss, not now… but Allan felt something deep within him that reassured; told him Sawyer would make the shot.

            He had never seen Sawyer so prepared… he definitely wasn't a boy… no, Agent Tom Sawyer was a man, and could potentially be a fine leader, Allan thought.

            The pain that had started between his shoulder blades had consumed him so completely now that he no longer really felt it at all. Allan was going numb, and he knew he was dying. It wouldn't be long until his last adventure ended. Maybe the myths and rumours about an afterlife were true… he supposed he would find out soon… maybe see his son again.

            His failing eyes watched the young Agent, saw his determination and fiery intent, the hatred and pain betrayed in the bright, intelligent eyes for just a moment… one that seemed to stretch out into an unbearable eternity that could mean all the difference between success and failure.

            Allan's breathing was mostly forced now, and he begged his one functioning lung not to fail on him… not yet. He had to wait… he needed to. He _had_ to see what Sawyer did, even as the index finger started to squeeze the trigger.

            _Feel the shot… _

            Without a hesitation then, the trigger was compressed, and the booming crack like thunder resonated deafeningly in the cavernous tower, once a chamber of horror and torture… now – he knew – Allan Quatermain's place of ending. It seemed to last forever, the silence that hovered between that gunshot, and the moment in which Tom Sawyer whirled.

            And Allan saw the one thing that reassured him entirely… told him the young man had lived up to his potential. For a moment, he was smiling, as he triumphantly exclaimed, "I got 'im!"

            The smile wavered and disappeared, and Allan knew the American had seen his waning condition, his failure. Allan nodded, impressed and satisfied, but truly unable to show it, other than by forcing what he hoped would be an influential sentence out of his mouth, his breath laboured, and his voice hoarse, "May this new century… be yours, son… as the last one… was mine."

            _Son…_ Had he meant that in the literal or figurative sense? With his last few moments of comprehensive awareness, saddened by the sorrowful expression on Sawyer's face, Allan decided that the American had been as close to him as Harry had… perhaps – regretfully so – even closer. He tried to smile one last time at Sawyer, and found he did not have the strength. It had all bled out of him, fleeing his body and leaving him fragile and weak.

            Slumping entirely, Allan's head lolled back and to the side… and he let go. His heart stopped beating, his intact lung failed, and his final breath seeped out of him, leaving his chest still and motionless.

            Allan Quatermain had finished his last adventure. 


End file.
